


Shadows

by cafephan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Songfic, artist!Phil, writer!Dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5582782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafephan/pseuds/cafephan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which both an artist and a writer are desperately seeking inspiration, but instead find each other and just what is hiding in the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

This fic is heavily influenced by ['In The Shadows Tonight'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eD3NwzsIZMc), so I strongly suggest listening to it whilst you read or afterwards!

\---------

_Mr. Howell;_

_Due to your failure to submit a piece of writing before the deadline, your opportunity to be featured in this month’s issue has been passed onto someone else._

_We wish you every luck for the future._

_Yours sincerely ;_

_Janette Moyburne, on behalf of Writing Monthly magazine._

Another rejection letter. The word failure sprung out at him, danced off of the page as the words once did from his pen. He stared intensely at the word, mentally drawing circle upon circle around it for emphasis, and eventually scrunched the letter into a ball and threw it in the general direction of the bin on the outskirts of the kitchen. It stopped just short of the overflowing pile of other rejection letters which spilled out of the bin that he hadn’t emptied in weeks.

He knew his problem, it was beyond writer’s block. Dan had only experienced writer’s block twice in his life, first when he was writing his infamous love letter to his high school crush which later became featured in a bestselling short story anthology, and the final time during the first scene of his debut novel. In a way, it was fortunate that it only sold a handful of copies, less people to see his disgrace of the English Language.

Dan was talented, there was no doubt about that, everyone that had read his writing up to age twenty-four had said so. But it seemed to him as if one day he woke up… and couldn’t write. He tried, he tried so hard. He penned a plethora of poems, a cliché sonnet and a couple of outrageous ballads. It was child’s scrawl, he wanted nothing to do with them. He wrote a short story, six hundred words about a couple on the run, he envied their happiness and it ended in a cliché that disgusted him. He had yet to pick up a pen since, in nearly eight months.

If he were to try, he would pick a cliché metaphor. About how he had mountains in his mind, and there was no way he could move them, and his inspiration and general happiness with life were on the other side. It was a perilous trek, and the mountains weren’t prepared to move for him.

He had taken to spending every night in the pitch darkness, opting to leave his bedside lamp be, and his duvet untouched. Every night he would sit on the edge of his bedframe, head in his hands. The London moonlight peered through his blinds, pitying him, and pooled on the crisp pillow he hadn’t touched in days.

One night he sat on the windowsill, gazing up at the stars, silently praying for a miracle. He took mental note of the one that was glowing the brightest, almost pulsating, and focused all his attention on it. He wasn’t religious in the slightest, but he was willing to try anything. He didn’t want to be terrified of opening his ideas notebook or picking up a pen anymore, he just wanted to be his old self, who could just about make it by and pay the rent through doing what he loved, he used to be proud. Now, he was just praying to anything and anyone who would listen to him. He craved inspiration.

The empty tub of coffee granules was the final straw. He didn’t let himself sleep anymore, cat naps in the late afternoon if anything, and he was on a constant caffeine drip. He hadn’t left the flat in over a week, and it was beginning to show. The tiny kitchen cupboards were empty with the doors hanging off their hinges, and the light in the fridge was cracked. The milk was beyond sour, and the bread sported holes of mould.

It seemed as if in a second he was at the front door, coat in hand and keys dangling from his index finger. His gaze lingered on his ideas notebook, in which he had written all of his past successes and what used to be his potential future hits. It had been unused for nearly eight months, and it seemed to be almost mocking him.

He slammed the door behind him as his eyes welled with tears.

Dan used to be apprehensive of the London nightlife, with growing up in the countryside all he knew was from cheesy films and TV police dramas, and although they were generally true, if the constant sirens he heard whizzing past his flat at all hours of the day were anything to go by, he felt okay. If anything were to happen, it may even be inspiration. A guy walking along the street is stabbed, and he gains a new lease of life, a new perspective upon waking up in the hospital. A woman’s handbag is stolen and is never found again, she gains courage and independence to stand up to all who have treated her wrong in the past. They worked themselves out in Dan’s head, but he knew he could never articulate them onto paper. His unique selling points would switch to clichés and overused metaphors, and he would be back to square one. Sitting alone in his room, sobbing into his hands.

The dull light of the lampposts gave the road and nearby pavement a yellowy glow, which Dan could once have used for symbolism, a man’s happiest moment being when he walked down the very same street with his betrothed. But now all Dan could think of was yellow connoting decay, just as his talent was decaying before his very eyes. It was a thought that made his hands stuff deeper into his thin jacket’s pockets, balling into fists as he blinked furiously to prevent tears from falling.

He hated himself for being drawn to the coffee shop, it was the epitome of cliché and he hated that he wanted to go inside. He hated himself for not having the willpower to stop himself. Sure enough, as the aroma of coffee beans and cocoa powder hit him, so did the sound of incessant keyboard clicking, as dozens of smartly dressed young adults typed out various forms of Dan’s jealousy. He would even take writing a university essay over what he was experiencing, he was desperate to have language spewing from his fingers again, word count or not, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. It was the most unnecessary detox, but one he couldn’t quit. It seemed as if his talent had been sucked out of him and sprinkled over the rest of the population, as Dan had observed over the past few months that the less he has written, the more articles are broadcasted on TV, the more advertisements for new books are plastered over buses and train station walls, and the more people are sat reading at the bus stop opposite his flat.

He didn’t even take notice of what he ordered, just asked for the barista’s recommendation and paid for it. He took the mug over to one of only two free tables, and immediately realised he had brought nothing. He couldn’t have brought a laptop as he had to sell it to pay for the past few months’ rent, of which last month was the final, he now had nothing, and the very idea of his notebook and pen terrified him. His phone was still charging at the side of his bed, wasting electricity he couldn’t afford.

Dan had no choice but to people watch to pass the time, and, as his coffee seemed scalding hot, he knew he’d be there a while. He watched as two teenage girls wooped and high-fived as they both finished college assignments before leaving happily. He watched as a couple in their mid-twenties shared a kiss as a result of whatever was on their laptop screen, later hearing one whisper ‘I can’t believe we got the house’ as they left hand-in-hand. He watched as the man on the table in front of him scribbled furiously into a notebook, and Dan grimaced. He was instantly jealous, how someone could be so confident in their writing when he all but considered his writing and his notebook toxic.

But yet he couldn’t pull his stare away, and he was thankful as he saw the man turn his pencil onto its side, and began shading a gradient. He wasn’t writing, after all. Dan tipped the mug so the last dregs of the liquid poured past his chapped lips, a gross misjudgement as he slurped loudly due to drinking mostly air, causing the man to look up from his notebook at Dan, and crack a small smile. Immediately, Dan felt heat rise to his cheeks as he mouthed a silent ‘sorry’ to the man, not to anyone else who may have heard him. He only kept his smile and mouthed an ‘it’s fine’ in return, before dipping his head back down and returning to his shading.

Dan knew it was a sign to either head home or order another drink with the few pound coins he couldn’t afford to be wasting, but he did neither. He stayed in his seat and watched subtly as the man drew some more, then erased it, and tried again, and erased it. The cycle repeated for over an hour, until eventually he threw his pencil onto the table in frustration and placed his head in his hands. Dan could sympathise, he found himself in the exact same position every night. He slammed his notebook closed and tucked it under his arm as he got up from the table. He took a deep breath before heading in the direction of the exit, but he smiled at Dan as he passed him, which made the brunet blush again. He waited a few minutes before leaving too, he found himself with a lot to think about. His head hit the pillow as soon as he got in, allowing slumber to overcome him for the first time in far too long, and he felt his lips twitch upward for the first time since he could remember.

\--

_Mr. Lester;_

_This is your third and final reminder that if you wish to be featured in this month’s exhibit, you **must** submit your first and second drafts of your artwork to the email address provided by the end of tomorrow._

_If you fail to do so, we will regrettably have to pass the opportunity onto someone else._

_Yours sincerely ;_

_Kevin Moore, on behalf of the Independent Young Artist Exhibits: London branch._

 

Phil took a deep breath as he placed the letter from two days prior on the glass coffee table, on top of its first and second predecessors. He sighed, and raked a shaky hand through his two-day unwashed hair, and stood up from the sofa, padding over to the easel stood in the corner of the living room.

The canvas was blank, a miniscule dot of blue paint in the bottom left corner accidentally spilled there when he was opening the tube of paint. He foolishly considered submitting it to the exhibit, a blank canvas with a barely noticeable blue dot in the corner, call it ‘modern art’ and be done with it, get paid and move on. He had never been rejected thus far in his career, this would be his fifteenth feature in an exhibit. He was living semi-comfortably, he could easily get by without his art, but it was an appallingly low wage anyhow, so what was a little extra spending money for doing what he loved?  

The paintbrush was glisteningly clean, resting on the ledge of the easel alongside a palette of colours. It felt awkward between his fingers now, his grip felt too loose, and the brush felt far too eager to escape him and fall to the floor. It was if one day he woke up and his talent had just left him.

Where he could once produce breath-taking designs laced with the most intricate of colour, he could now only produce toddler-quality scribbles and he coloured outside of the lines. He tried emotionally fuelled paintings at one point, painting in only blue when he was at his saddest and in red at his most frustrated, but nothing changed. His artwork was a shell of its former self and it terrified him, so much so he was hesitant of even touching a paintbrush anymore, his current experience only justified it. He was renowned for his paintings, countless critics said if he produced more regularly then he could make a living from it. It was ironic, his talent was decaying just as was his very first review from years before, which he had framed on his living room wall.

He tried a new art style, pencil sketching. It started being of whatever was in his line of vision, the classic fruit bowl and a nearby houseplant. But the lines would all overlap and the shading would be awful, and his eraser never quite erased all of the failure.

Come afternoon, he was at his worst. He would sit on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, and he felt as if the four walls of his room were closing in. His flat was open-plan so there was no logical reason for him to feel this way, but he felt constricted in his own home, so much so he would sometimes struggle for breath. His mind would play unjustified optical illusions in the afternoon, what used to be the time inspiration would most likely strike. Once, if this were to happen, he would have rushed to his easel and tried to emulate the illusion with a cacophony of interlocking colour and brash designs, but now he only squeezed his eyes closed and begged for it to go away.

It was the second consecutive day he’d visited the same damn coffee shop, now, and he hated that he was a walking cliché. But, he knew that many people find inspiration in quaint establishments like this, and that was what he was praying for. He didn’t want a lot, just a little, a little sliver of inspiration that he could expand from. It’s what he prided himself on doing, what people admired his work for, and he felt as if he was letting the world down by being intimidated by his own paintbrush and easel, and terrified of his own mind.

A thing he unmistakably liked about the coffee shop, though, was how it had no artwork on its walls. There was nothing to mock him, nothing professional anyway. Phil tried his hardest not to glance towards the family in the corner of the room, in which the child was drawing away happily onto a piece of paper. He was sure whatever the child produced would be better than his recent work.

He ordered the same coffee as yesterday, and he soon realised his only problem was finding a place to sit. He didn’t realise the place was packed to the brim, he couldn’t see a free chair. He silently cursed himself for coming a few hours earlier than yesterday, the after-school rush was currently paying custom, the majority of space filled by groups of teenagers and schoolchildren buzzing with excitement.

Due to his height, Phil thankfully managed to spot a spare seat near the back of the building, and weaved his way between swarms of caffeine-consuming customers to the spare seat, standing beside it awkwardly as he contemplated.

“Is it okay if I sit here, please?” he asked the person at the other end of the small table, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

“Of course” they replied, and Phil sighed in relief as he sat down at placed his mug on the table before the skin on his hands began to peel.

“It’s busier today, isn’t it?” the person asked, and Phil furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he set to look at them, and his eyes widened in surprise as he took in who was sat opposite him. The same guy from yesterday who was all but subtly staring at him for over two hours, who slurped air.

“Ah, I remember you! Air slurper” Phil grinned, and the man blushed, shaking his head in embarrassment.

“Honestly one of my finer moments in life” he joked, though his voice sounded croaky, not normal by any means. His chuckle was dark and husky, and it made Phil sub-consciously lean a little further back in his seat.

“I’m sure, I’m sure” Phil replied with a small smile, and the man stretched his hand halfway between them.

“I’m Dan, by the way, figured I should introduce myself if we’re going to be sat together for a while” he shrugged, and Phil nodded and shook his hand as was customary.

“I’m Phil, it’s nice to meet you, Dan” Phil smiled, and Dan returned it, though his smile was significantly smaller. Phil inwardly cursed himself for being so overly polite.

Just as yesterday, Phil noticed that Dan had nothing on the table besides his drink. No phone, no laptop, no book. It was odd, every other person he had ever come across in a coffee shop setting had at least their phone on the table. Dan was unique, and Phil liked that, because he was too. Though, he did feel as though he couldn’t check his phone throughout his time at the shop, despite feeling it vibrate in his pocket multiple times.

But it didn’t matter too much as he finally thawed Dan out a little, and even got him to laugh. They both only stayed a couple of hours longer, and left at the same time, Dan heading to the right and Phil heading to the left. By the time Phil got back to his flat the sun was about to drop below a fluffy cloud, and the last wisps of afternoon sun were reflecting on the blank canvas of his easel, taunting him. He wanted to trace them, and turn the shapes into something beautiful, but he couldn’t bring himself to be in the vicinity of it.

Instead, he curled up on the sofa, smiling to himself over something Dan said earlier before they parted ways at the coffee shop exit, letting a curled smile play on his lips as his eyes batted closed, his flat feeling airy and comfortable for the first time in months.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Absolutely”

\--

That’s how it mapped out for the next four days, until the coffee shop was closed for the weekend. Then, Phil invited Dan over to his flat so they could get to know each other more, away from prying eyes and ears of various customers. He had never felt more relieved than when Dan happily agreed and nodded, Phil had never been confident in social interaction, he had always let his art demonstrate it for him.

Dan put extra effort into his appearance that afternoon, willing with everything he had that his six-year-old straighteners would pull through for once, which they did up until the last second, but it was enough. He pulled out his iron for only the third time since he had moved in, eliminating every possible crease from his shirt before yanking it over his body, draping his leather jacket over the top and posing in front of the mirror as he brushed his teeth. The bathroom lightbulb was about to blow, the light coming out of it was pitiful, but Dan couldn’t afford to replace it. He couldn’t afford anything but a cup of coffee everyday and a weekly stipend of basic shopping, he was living on the breadline with no inspiration and nobody to turn to. Phil’s invitation seemed a godsend, and he allowed himself to get his hopes up. Maybe it could be inspiration in motion, a budding romance.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He was a writer, yes, and writers are renowned for their ambiguity and ambitious nature, but there was something about Phil that just got Dan’s heart racing a little faster than it should, and it was a sensation he thrived on.

He somehow successfully managed to navigate his way to Phil’s flat by foot, not being able to pay for a taxi, and was breathless by the time he climbed the four flights of stairs. Thirty minutes of walking had really taken it out of him, but Dan put it down to London roads and streets being longer than those back in the countryside.

“Dan, you came!” Phil beamed as he opened the door, and Dan smiled weakly in return as he made his breaths quieter, holding his stomach as he did so, feeling ridiculously low on energy.

Dan felt comfortable in Phil’s presence, it was something he was more than thankful for, especially as Phil told him to make himself at home. As Dan flopped down on the sofa and his breathing slowly returned to a normal pace, he looked around the flat in awe.

It was like something out of a show home, an ‘idyllic home’ advert that Dan used to see between the published pieces of writing in literary digest-esque publications he would be featured in, that he always envied.

He felt like he should be angry, that Phil was living in this luxury whilst Dan himself was living in squalor, poverty in comparison to Phil, but he wasn’t. He was just envious of all that Phil could evidently afford. Dan just thought that maybe if his talent hadn’t left him and his inspiration would return, then he might be able to afford the same someday.

Dan’s gaze led him to a golden-rimmed photo frame hanging in the middle of one of the walls, a small piece of paper inside it, the writing too small and faded for Dan to possibly read from the distance away from it that he was. Below it, he was in awe of a vintage style easel, a palette of colours on the ledge ready for usage and a pot of paintbrushes beside it, tubes of paint piled on the adjacent shelf. He took particular note of the canvas, which was blank. Dan immediately thought of the irony of the connotation. Formulated a farfetched metaphor.

“Here we are, just like the coffee shop” Phil announced as he placed two mugs on the table in front of Dan, and sitting beside him.

Dan thanked him gratefully – selfishly thankful that he didn’t have to pay for any coffee today – but couldn’t tear his gaze away from the easel, the way that Phil had prepared so much around it, it had to be more than a hobby. Dan knew dedication, he possessed it for his writing, and went overboard with the materials when he could afford it, and he knew Phil would relate.

“So you’re an artist?” Dan asked as he took his first sip of the coffee, and Phil cocked his head to the side, biting his lip.

When he didn’t answer, Dan nodded towards the easel, and Phil followed his gaze, Dan saw his shoulders slump, but perk up again as Phil turned back to face him.

“Oh, um, yeah, I guess” Phil shrugged, ending the topic of conversation swiftly as he took a sip of coffee.

Dan wanted to know more about Phil’s art style, he was fascinated by everyone’s unique style of everything, but, judging by there being no artwork anywhere that Dan could see in the flat, Phil probably didn’t want to talk about it. Which he understood and respected, he would be exactly the same if anyone were to pry about his writing at the current time.

Despite all their previous meetings, they still knew next to nothing about each other, and it made Dan chuckle to himself. But Phil seemed eager to learn, and so was he.

“So what do you do, Dan?” Phil asked, changing the topic completely a few seconds after placing his mug back down.

Dan swallowed thickly, and put all of his willpower into not crying. He wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of Phil, not again. He didn’t have an occupation, he didn’t even have a dream anymore, since it had left him.

“I, uh, I’m a writer” Dan replied, taking note of Phil’s wide eyed reaction, followed by a smile.

“That’s amazing! Can I read some of your stuff?” he asked immediately, and Dan shook his head far too vigorously, causing Phil to press his lips together and mutter a ‘sorry’.

“So what made you want to pursue art?” Dan asked in rebuttal, dipping his head and keeping his stare on his lap as to not meet Phil’s disappointed gaze.

But Phil was only shocked, nobody had ever really cared to ask in depth about his art. All people usually asked was ‘how much did this one sell for’ and ‘when’s the next one’. Petty things that upset him, in all honesty, but Dan’s question seemed genuine, and despite his shy mannerisms he did seem interested.

“I guess it was the one thing I could really see myself doing, you know? I’ve never been fully academically minded and it’s the only thing anyone’s ever complimented me on” Phil shrugged again – he made a mental note to stop doing that – and Dan’s head shot up and their gazes locked. Dan looked vulnerable.

“I know what that’s like. Exactly the same story with me” he mumbled.

And that’s when Phil grabbed him into a hug. A tight hug, arms wrapped around Dan’s torso. His eyes were squeezed shut as he packed emotion into it, and panic was rising up until Dan slowly returned the hug, and his arms wrapped around Phil’s torso and then gripped tight.

They stayed in their embrace for a few minutes, neither saying a word, and it was after two minutes or so that Phil felt Dan begin to cry, tears dampening his shirt. Phil hugged him tighter, and Dan gripped Phil tighter too, and Phil slowly rocked them from side to side. He didn’t need to question it, because he knew why. They were kindred spirits, he knew that Dan was hiding in the shadows too, living vicariously through his writing as Phil was through his art.

\--

Their (platonic) coffee dates were a daily occurrence from then, moving completely from the coffee shop to Phil’s flat – Dan insisting they couldn’t meet at his as there was a recent drug bust and the block was overwhelmingly noisy – and it was on day six, after many, _many_ revelations from both men about their past and their passions for the creative arts, that Dan arrived at Phil’s flat with his notebook under his arm, and a couple of pens in his jacket pocket.

Phil greeted him with a wide smile, which Dan returned. It would have been an alien concept to Dan earlier in the month, that he would be smiling every day and laughing with a friend, talking with someone who didn’t judge him for what he loved. But here he was, in Phil’s flat, his notebook on his lap as Phil sat opposite him with a raised eyebrow, both having recovered from a lame joke that Dan cracked on his way in.

“What’s this?” Phil asked, nodding down at Dan’s notebook.

“Where all your dreams lie,” he replied, and at Phil’s confused expression he rolled his eyes playfully, “my writing notebook, genius”

“Oooooh, gimme gimme gimme!” Phil made a grabbing motion, but Dan shook his head and held the book out of Phil’s grasp, causing the blue-eyed man to pout.

“Not until you show me some of your art” Dan compromised, and Phil bit his lip.

“Oh come on, you’ve told me that you’ve made nearly twenty highbrow exhibits, plus you can afford this place, so it can’t be that bad” Dan insisted, and Phil stood up from the sofa and began walking towards a room at the back of the flat.

“Never assume, Dan. You can really hurt people that way” Phil stated monotonously before slipping into the room, leaving Dan dumbfounded. What had he said?

The fact he had obviously pissed Phil off was enough to drain the colour from his face and wipe the smile well and truly from his lips. With a sigh, he looked down at his notebook, the murky green cover seemed suddenly unappealing, and he never wanted to open it again. He threw it onto the floor and threw the pens on top of it. Suddenly what he came to Phil’s flat for seemed selfish, and he felt a burden.

Dan sat cross-legged on the sofa in silence until Phil returned empty-handed a few minutes later, sitting back beside Dan silently.

“I can’t find any that are good enough to show you” he mumbled, placing interlocked hands onto his lap.

“That’s okay” Dan’s voice is merely a whisper, a sizable lump in his throat.

The night ended with Dan relapsing into his old habit, sobbing into his hands beneath the unforgiving London skyline.

\--

The next day, Dan is hesitant. He’s sure Phil doesn’t want him at his flat anymore, there’s no other justification for his sudden mood change.

But Phil’s texts throughout the day are insistent that Dan comes over as normal, alongside countless apologies and statements like he overreacted, and Dan decided to bite the bullet and made his way over to Phil’s flat.

Phil swung the door open eagerly and ushered Dan inside, and as soon as Dan sat down, it was hard to miss the collection of canvases that were gathered in the middle of the living room, and Phil stood beside them, grinning.

“You wanted to see them, so here” he gestured towards the canvases, and Dan dashed towards them, picking each one up carefully and admiring every centimetre, every brush stroke. He was in awe, of both Phil’s artwork and Phil himself. Dan wished he were brave enough to share his writing with Phil the way Phil has shared his art.

“Ah, one of my favourites,” Phil mused, and pointed towards a golden tint on a curve of the art, which Dan focused on too. “This took a while, to find the right brush and whatnot”

Dan’s mouth fell open as he realised just how much effort Phil put into his craft, the equivalent of how much effort he himself put in back when he could write properly, to the standard he and everyone else expects of him.

“It’s beautiful” Dan gushes, and Phil nudges him in the arm in appreciation.

“Thankyou”

An hour or so appreciation later, they’re sat cross-legged opposite each other on the sofa, and Dan continued to steal glances over at Phil’s art, which makes Phil chuckle.

“Dan, you’re really, really talented” Phil blurted randomly, pulling Dan’s stare back to him and his eyes widen as Phil holds up Dan’s notebook. “You left it yesterday”

Dan wanted to be mad. He wanted to shout at Phil for invading his privacy, scream that Phil has no right to go through his personal possessions, but he doesn’t. Because he’s relieved. He’s relieved that Phil knows exactly what he’s been going through. All Dan does is mumble a thankyou, and Phil flicks to the last filled page.

_“Childhood is so underrated, have you ever thought? No worries, no life lessons, just bobbing along happily with little to fear. We’re not taught how to live, how to love. I ask myself ‘where do broken hearts go?’ and there is only one real answer; Wherever you are, alone in the dark.”_ Phil reads Dan’s poem, and Dan mouths it along with him, knowing his own work off by heart.

“From my collection ‘confessions of a boy ablaze’, completed November twenty-third, two thousand and fourteen,” Dan recalls, and Phil nods in confirmation, biting his lip. “Also known as the second to last time I ever wrote anything decent, four months before I wrote for the last time”

“Painting titled ‘A Better Me’, completed November eleventh, two thousand and fourteen,” Phil sighed as he pointed to the canvas at the far right of the cluster, “also known as the last time I ever painted”

Dan swallowed thickly, in plain shock that Phil understood him so deeply, could _relate._

“I switched to thinking up ideas that never become reality, because I can’t articulate them” Dan reveals, and Phil nods.

“I switched to pencil sketches, because I can’t paint with half as much emotion as I used to” Phil reveals, and Dan nods.

“I’ve lost my talent” they say in sync, and both place hands over their mouths.

“You think you’ve lost your talent?” Dan asks, and Phil nods indignantly.

“Of course I have, look at this” Phil reaches behind him and retrieves a notebook, and tosses it into Dan’s notebook. Dan recognises it as Phil’s sketchpad from the first day in the coffee shop.

He skimmed through it, in awe of Phil’s ability to switch between art forms so seamlessly - despite his arguments, though Dan noted that none of Phil’s sketches are completed, and vigorous and harsh rubbings-out by the eraser have stained each page.

“See” Phil sighed, and Dan shook his head.

“They’re beautiful” he spoke in a whisper, regretful that he had nothing new to show in return.

“I’m just terrified to pick up a paintbrush again. Everyone has such high expectations of me and my art and it’s just-“

“Impossible to match up to them. Everyone’s put so much pressure on you that it’s bled you dry and you’re a shell of yourself now. Yeah, I know exactly where you’re coming from” Dan interjected, voicing their shared problems, and Phil reached over to grab Dan’s hand, which he squeezed.

“We’re going to be okay, Dan. We’ll make it” Phil reassured a now silently sobbing Dan, whom simply tightened his grip on Phil’s hand.

\--

The next day Dan comes around earlier as per Phil’s request, and they greet with a hug. It feels as if they’ve known each other forever by this point.

Phil’s paintings are still in the living room, and both of their notebooks are laid side by side on the coffee table.

Dan retrieved a handful of rejection letters from his pocket and dropped them onto the table too, and Phil fetched some of his own.

Together, they walk out onto the balcony, and on the count of three dropped all of the letters, and watched them flutter downwards until they hit the gravel below the building.

Both Dan and Phil felt refreshed, and grinned at each other as they sat cross-legged on the sofa opposite each other, a go-to position for them, by now.

“I want to apologise for the other day, again. It was wrong of me” Phil apologised, but Dan shook his head.

“I get it, honestly, Phil. You don’t need to apologise anymore. You’re completely forgiven” Dan insisted.

“No, I want to explain. I don’t want you to think I’m temperamental or mad at you or anything like that” Phil continued, and this time all Dan can do is nod in encouragement.

“When you commented about my flat it just struck a nerve with me, and I’m sorry about that. But it honestly has nothing to do with my art, being able to afford this” Phil explained, gesturing around the flat. Dan doesn’t respond, so Phil continued.

“My family are pretty well off, and by that I mean _really_ well off. And, well, when I moved to London, it wasn’t voluntary. My parents… they’re not entirely supportive of my choices” Phil trailed off, prompting Dan to respond.

“Do you mean wanting to be an artist?” he asked, and Phil smiled and shook his head.

“That was the final straw yes, as I didn’t want to go into academia. But no, I mean my orientation, my preference” Phil spelled out what he meant, and Dan nodded in understanding, blushing slightly at how he misconstrued previously.

“I’m sorry…” Phil waved off Dan’s sympathy as he went into the home stretch of his revelation.

“And, long story short, they offered to move me out here and pay for me to live in arguable luxury for the rest of my life,” Phil continued before Dan could respond, “provided that I never go to visit them, ever, or try to contact them” Phil was shocked that he could get through the last clause without breaking into tears.

Dan was speechless, at how inhumane Phil’s parents could be in palming him off with cash in exchange for not having anything to do with their gay son, he was disgusted. But he wrapped Phil in the tightest hug that he could, and smiled when Phil gripped him just as tighter.

When they pulled apart a few minutes later, and Phil wiped his eyes a few times, Dan had something on his chest he just couldn’t keep in any longer.

“There wasn’t a drug bust in my flat block”

Phil cocked his head to the side and smiled slightly at Dan’s outburst.

“What?”

“Yeah, I, I lied. I guess it’s my turn to come clean about stuff” Dan shrugged, and Phil straightened himself up and stopped dabbing his eyes, only sniffling a few times by this point.

“Basically, I’m broke. I moved to London to pursue my writing because you know, tis the city of opportunity and all that crap, and I left behind my supportive family who couldn’t do enough for me. I came to be independent, confident in myself and my writing, told them all I could support myself with no problem, that I’d make them all proud of me. But in reality, I’m living in a deteriorating dingy hellhole of a flat where everything is rotting and falling apart, I can’t even afford more than a loaf of bread and milk every week. Yet I’m still too fucking proud to ask my family for help” Dan shook his head as tears glided across his eyelashes and dropped onto his jeans, and it broke Phil’s heart, just as Dan’s had broken at Phil’s story.

“Dan, I had no idea…” Phil trailed off as he grabbed Dan’s hand, causing the brunet to look up from his lap.

“Listen, I can keep you afloat if you need. I want you to be happy, and if writing makes you happy then I want to support you in that, you can’t leave when you’re so close to cracking into the business” Phil offered, and Dan chuckled bitterly.

“I’ve been trying to crack into the business since I was ten years old, Phil. If it’s not happened by now it’s never going to, especially now I’m terrified to even touch a bloody pen out of fear I’ll fuck up again” Dan’s voice cracked mid-sentence as his head dipped once again, and Phil desperately racked his brain for an idea.

Soon enough, it hit him.

“Okay, we can work with that. Come with me” he requested, pulling Dan up from the sofa with ease and led him into a room leading off the living room that Dan had never been in before. A laptop was set up on a desk beside a comfortable looking bed, and Phil quickly opened up a Word document, and began typing on it. Dan stood awkwardly behind him, waiting to see whatever he had planned.

“Sit,” he instructed, moving aside and sitting on the bed as Dan sat on the computer chair, finally getting to see what Phil had been typing, “and write” he pointed to the screen. He had written a list of words for Dan to use in a piece of writing, along with a theme. It was an exercise Dan had heard of before, but had never tried. He cast a look over to Phil who was smiling widely, and nodded towards the screen.

“You said you don’t want to pick up a pen, and I can work with that. Just try this, see how it goes” he suggested softly, and Dan’s fingers ghosted above the keyboard. Was he really going to write for the first time in eight months? Would he be able to write for a prolonged amount of time, with an audience? A twitch of his index finger causing it to collide with the R button gave the answer, as a millisecond later he was typing furiously, grinning from ear to ear as words continued to flow from his fingertips effortlessly, leaving an awestruck Phil beside him, who was watching him type at lightning speed.

“Done!” Dan announced happily, three-thousand words later.

“Yay! Let me read it!” Phil pleaded, but Dan only laughed and shook his head, and jumped up from the chair and grabbed Phil’s hand, leading him back into the living room. “Later, okay? First I want to do something for you”

Phil remained silent as Dan led him to the middle of the room, and then let go of his hand as he dashed over to Phil’s art shelf in the corner, and watched as Dan bundled art supplies in his arms and then dropped them to the floor a minute later.

“Dan, this isn’t going to work. I’m not touching that paintbrush” Phil stated adamantly, and Dan raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I can work with that” he mocked Phil from not too long before as he popped the lids off of all the tubes of paint he’d fetched, and rolled an A3 sheet of paper along the wooden panelling. “Give me your hand”

Phil stretched out his hand and Dan smiled, “What are you even doing-“ he stopped mid-sentence as Dan dipped Phil’s index finger into the tube of red paint, his thumb into blue, and his ring finger into green.

Phil had no doubt that Dan would make him fingerpaint, but he remained silent as Dan got to work. Dan kept his hand on Phil’s – uncaring of getting paint on him – and guided it around the paper, forming unusual shapes and swirls in random places. After forming five, Dan removed his hand from Phil’s, and wiped what little paint he had on his fingers onto Phil’s nose with a giggle.

“Paint” he pointed to the paper, and it was almost instinct, the way Phil’s fingers manipulated the shapes into something more unique, adding dashes of other colours where he saw fit, and mixing some when needed. He dipped his remaining fingers in the other colours of paint that Dan brought over, and smiled gratefully.

Dan remained silent as Phil was at work, simply smiling widely as he crossed his legs and watched. Phil was smiling the whole time. He was essentially fingerpainting, he knew, but it was new, and it was liberating. He felt no pressure on him for what felt like the first time, and he would be eternally thankful for the man sat in front of him.

Once he was happy with his creation, he sat upright and looked down at it, as did Dan, whose mouth dropped open.

“How did you manage to do that?? I gave you really crappy shapes to start with and you’ve made it into this?” Dan asked in disbelief, and Phil laughed.

“All in a day’s work” he sang as he dashed a streak of purple paint along Dan’s chin.

“Okay, okay, I’m stopping this before we get carried away” Dan stated as he fetched some kitchen roll, and both men wiped the paint from their skin.

Phil carefully placed the paper away from where they may tread on it and wrapped Dan in another hug, an unbreakable one at that.

“Thankyou. So, so much” Phil mumbled into Dan’s shoulder, and Dan’s smile grew.

“And thank _you._ From the bottom of my heart. I feel like I can have another go at writing again, like I’ve been brought out of whatever funk I was in before. Thankyou” Dan continued to repeat his thanks like a mantra, and Phil hugged him even tighter.

“Thankyou for wanting coffee that day and then slurping air” Phil spoke randomly a few seconds after, and Dan sighed dramatically, and both shared a laugh, heads bobbing whilst on each other’s shoulders.

It was a good five minutes later until they broke apart, sitting on the floor with their knees touching, facing each other. It was Dan who broke the silence.

“Please never leave me” he sounded as vulnerable as ever, and Phil wanted to hug him again.

“I’d never planned on it, Dan. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I moved to London” Phil didn’t feel stupid at all, with only knowing Dan a matter of weeks and saying what he was. They had a genuine connection and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. He was in the shadows to everyone but Dan, hiding behind his artwork, and Dan was the only one who had bothered to get to know the man behind it all.

“What about all the exhibits?” Dan asked breathlessly, both men well aware of how close their faces had gotten to each other without either realising, and Phil gulped.

“They’re a close second” he shrugged before closing the gap between them and kissing Dan softly, and he couldn’t help but smile when Dan reciprocated and they both melted into the kiss, Dan wrapping his arms around Phil’s neck.

They kissed more for a few minutes, only breaking apart when absolutely necessary, they were craving each other in every sense. They remained with their foreheads touching, gazes flicking from the other’s eyes then to their lips, and back again.

“Stay with me tonight” Phil whispered, both of them panting slightly.

“Thought you’d never ask” Dan replied before connecting their lips once again.

\--

“They’re here!” Phil called as he entered the flat, and Dan strolled out of the bedroom and plonked down on the sofa and sighed emphatically.

“Oh great, what better way to celebrate our four months of moving in together than our first rejection letters of the year” he commented sarcastically as Phil dropped the letters onto his lap and leaned down to kiss Dan, and lingered on his lips for just a second too long.

“You don’t know that they’re rejections” Phil reminded him, and Dan only smiled at Phil’s optimism.

Both Dan and Phil had been working perilously for the past five months to get their respective creative outlets up to professional standard again, and had sent them off together and agreed to take every step together. Until then, Phil’s parents’ money had been keeping them happy and comfortable since Dan moved in with Phil mere days after becoming an official couple, and they were both more than ready to be earning some bonus cash of their own accord.

“On the count of three?” Dan suggested, and Phil nodded, readying his thumb to tear the envelope open.

“Wait, I think we should swap. Read each other’s, you know?” Dan changed his mind at the last second, and Phil nodded happily as they exchanged envelopes, the bubble of anxiety in his stomach was only growing every second that ticked by when he was holding his own envelope.

“On three?” Phil picked up Dan’s suggestion, and Dan nodded, together counting down to one, when they both tore open the envelopes and eagerly scanned the thin pieces of paper, occasionally darting glances to the other to analyse their reaction.

Phil was the one who broke first, and waved Dan’s letter in the air.

“You did it, Dan!” he exclaimed joyfully, and Dan dropped Phil’s letter in shock.

“Wh-what?” he asked in disbelief.

“I’m so proud of you!” Phil was still as loud as he was previously, and he reached over to cup Dan’s face, and began peppering kisses all over him.

“See for yourself” he passed the letter over after they had both calmed down, and, with shaking hands, Dan read his letter.

_Mr. Howell;_

_Thankyou for your submission for this month’s issue. I am delighted to inform you that your short story titled ‘Crystallize’ is being published (pg. 13)._

_Agreed payment is scheduled and will be arriving shortly._

_Congratulations and I hope you submit to us again!_

_Yours sincerely ;_

_Janette Moyburne, on behalf of Writing Monthly magazine._

“I can’t believe I did it… this magazine rejected me only months ago and now I’m being published near the front. Do you know how many people read and are subscribed to this magazine, Phil?” Dan asked, eyes wide glistening.

“I do, and I’m so proud of you” Phil pulled Dan in for a tight hug, and it was surprisingly Dan who pulled away first.

“Wait wait what am I doing, you need to know your fate too before we go celebrating” Dan stated, and Phil sat back in his seat, fighting back tears. The way Dan was speaking, it didn’t sound like good news.

“It’s okay… I’ll just try harder next time, let’s just keep being happy for you” Phil put on a brave face as he reached for his letter, but Dan held it out of reach, and waggled his finger.

“You don’t really need to try harder when you’re the bloody lead piece in an exhibit” he grinned as he handed Phil his letter, which he read with shaking hands as Dan smiled, watching.

_Mr. Lester;_

_Thankyou for your submission of your piece titled ‘Ignition’. I am delighted to inform you that your piece will be presented as the **lead** in our May showcase in London. _

_Arranged payment is scheduled and should be with you in a few days._

_Be sure to come and see your piece in action!_

_Congratulations, and please submit to us again!_

_Yours sincerely ;_

_Kevin Moore, on behalf of the Independent Young Artist Exhibits: London branch._

“I’m the lead in the exhibit that draws in tens of thousands of people per year” Phil reworded the letter’s contents, and Dan nodded eagerly.

“Isn’t that great? I’m so proud of you!” he declared as he sat on Phil’s lap and kissed him passionately, and rested his head on Phil’s chest, and Phil wrapped his arms around Dan, placing their letters on the arm of the sofa.

“I told you we’d make it, Dan” Phil whispered as he kissed the top of Dan’s head, and Dan smiled.

\--

_‘Crystallize’_

_He didn’t want to feel that way. He didn’t want to feel incomplete, half a heart._

_He would once laugh in the face of adversary, he really, truly would. The times he once had were all had left. He inevitably sat alone, devoid of the love he once gave out, one too many bittersweet goodbyes had finally taken their toll. He watched as everyone around him lived in an amorous haze, a familial bliss, whilst his closest companion was a daily flat coffee and the crust of a loaf of bread._

_He wore his heart out on his sleeve, he loved too much or not at all, and he put that down to why he was sat alone, picking at thread and praying to a power he doesn’t believe in._

_Only fools rush in, that he was told, but took no notice, only fools fall in love – now that’s what he wanted to be told._

_He was a phantom to himself, as day is to night._

_But sometimes there is a solace, a diamond in the rough, and good things actually do come to those who wait. His counting on stars paid off as he finally had him in his arms, swimming in ocean blue eyes and hearing all the things he had said far too many times before to never previously hear them back._

_I love you’s are cliché and I need you’s are too extreme, though both apply. He doesn’t quite know how to articulate himself to the one who means the most, books don’t help and the internet is useless._

_He feels powerless in terms of what he can do, pen barely scratches paper and fingers only hover above the keyboard. Kisses can only go so far._

_You’ll find, in the end, that there is no proper way, not one that is universal. He found that his lover is unique, as unique as you or I, and there was only one true way._

_‘Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?’ they ask._

_‘I do’ he replies in turn, and so does his lover._

_\--_

_‘Ignition’_

_I can’t believe I’m captioning the lead piece in this exhibit, but here goes! This is my ‘big comeback’ to painting and the art world, you could say, after an extensive break. There was one main inspiration for this piece – my fiancé, Dan._

_I won’t keep you too long, but please give all your thanks to Dan for this painting being a physical thing and not just an inconspicuous idea in my head that would never see the light of day._

_This is hopefully only the start of many, many more paintings of mine!_

_-_ _Phil Lester_

**Author's Note:**

> This is it for my last fic of 2015!!
> 
> Wow can you believe I only meant for this to be like 1k words long oops I have no idea how this happened
> 
> But yay my first artist/writer au!! I have a poet au coming sometime next year though so this is only the beginning :)
> 
> As always, please please let me know what you thought of this fic, and thankyou for your ongoing support these past nine months since I began posting phanfiction, i'm forever grateful for you all accepting me!!
> 
> Also follow me on tumblr (cafephan) and twitter (idkirsten_)
> 
> xxx


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